


Fever

by Agib



Series: Febuwhump 2020 [2]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fever, Human Trafficking, Hurt Spencer Reid, Mentions of Death, Mentions of violence/character death but it's pretty vague, POV Derek Morgan, Spencer Reid Whump, Unsub | Unknown Subject, dead bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:22:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22525498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agib/pseuds/Agib
Summary: Agent Derek Morgan didn't know what exactly he was expecting to find in the basement of the team's newest unsub.What he does know is that hewasn'texpecting to be carrying a half-consciouskidtwenty-one year old in his arms at the end of it all.
Relationships: Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid & The BAU Team
Series: Febuwhump 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619311
Comments: 29
Kudos: 816





	Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Febuwhump Yay!
> 
> Okay so I know I'm branching out into another fandom and probably nobody expected this - but pleasepleaseplease tell me if you like it I need validation and would love to know if I've got any criminal minds fans out there! COME SCREAM AT ME CM FANS!
> 
> Warning: There's a super brief mention of the FBI's Innocent Images Unit, and in real life they've busted heaps of sex trafficking rings. But this fic doesn't allude to anything non-con related! 
> 
> For Soph ~ because you introduced me to CM and now I can't stop binge watching and binge reading fics.

FW 2 Fever 

Derek Morgan isn’t incompetent.

He’s been employed with the Chicago PD as part of the bomb squad, has worked with the BAU for  
plenty of time now. He’s pushed through every single issue in his life from birth in nineteen-seventy-  
five and is still _breathing_ – which is more than he could say for majority of the people he’d  
grown up with. He’s professional, he’s smart, tactical, hot-headed but able to compartmentalise like  
it’s nothing. He renovates houses by hand in his spare time, for God’s sake. He carries a Glock  
seventeen with a TLR-two tactical attachment around with him on the daily, like it’s common  
practice, and he’s never made a fatal shot that wasn’t intentional.

He isn’t an inept individual.

So why exactly he was disregarding direct orders from his unit-chief and close friend like an idiot? He  
couldn’t tell you.

But then again, here he was, ready to kick down another door with the SWAT team right behind him,  
ignoring Hotch in his earpiece.

Well, that was a lie, because he knew why he felt the need to get into that house  
 _immediately_.

“Morgan, I could’ve sworn we agreed to wait for the all clear before entering that building.” Aaron  
Hotchner didn’t exactly mask his disgruntled irritation, but why should he have to when Morgan was  
the one who was putting _his_ ass on the line?

“You can tell me off later,” he grunted as the door practically caved in on itself under his boot –  
these unsubs clearly had no respect for council building safety regulations. He covered the centre of  
the room as two SWAT agents swung outward on either side of him, all three flashlights bouncing and  
reflecting off the radiating dust from the entrance room.

The space was small, it smelled of mildew and rot. Letters and discarded mail covered the floor. The  
empty doorframe bordered a scruffy living room. There was a slouched armchair, a stained and  
ragged two-seater resting on a once white, now rotten, brown carpeting.

“Morgan.” Hotch clipped sternly from Derek’s side. The younger agent would have startled at the  
sudden appearance of his superior, but he was peaking on adrenaline-fuelled focus, swinging his gun  
towards any slight movement, ready for anything.

The thing was, they had all dealt with cases like this for years now. The FBI’s ‘Innocent Images’ Unit  
was prolific for this kind of thing. Ever since the big bust back in the nineties, which of course Agent  
Morgan hadn’t worked, the unit had been centred around the infiltration of trafficking rings. The  
fact that the men who ran the trafficking site cottoned on to the fake profile the Innocent Images  
Unit had been using to attempt to garner their trust was just bad luck. The men had to be  
geographically profiled if the FBI were ever going to find the location they were operating out of. The  
Swat team was just a precautionary need for extra muscle at this point.

But men who profiled like the ones Morgan and Hotch were out in California to apprehend were far  
too likely to snap and destroy as much evidence as possible. And victims could be considered  
evidence to men like this.

“We’re clear out back,” a tinny voice came through the earpiece.

“Morgan, take some of the guys from SWAT with you,” Hotch said immediately. “Try and find a  
basement while I clear the bedrooms.” The man looked as though he were considering Morgan for a  
moment, trying to work out if he was going to follow his orders or not.

“Got it,” Derek answered tersely. He could see a flight of stairs beside the room Hotch had just  
cleared, and he rounded on them as soon as Hotch had moved away.

The steps were wooden, slightly crooked on the decline, but the thing that registered first was the  
smell. It crept upwards from the closed door at the base of the steps, and Derek could almost  
imagine how many years it would take to build up a stench so strong that it could seep into the walls  
like that. It vaguely reminded him of a fresh body dumpsite the team would investigate.

One of the men from the SWAT team held up his gun, giving Morgan the go-ahead to twist the  
handle slowly.

Unlike a movie, the door didn’t make a sound as it swung open inwards.

Unfortunately, the SWAT team’s flashlight beams illuminated a scene that mimicked that of a horror  
set.

The first thing they could see was the sets of chains lining the concrete walls. Some of them were  
rusted, some were freshly replaced, which was arguably more worrying. There were fingernail  
scratches in tallies across almost every cinderblock beneath hip height. Cigarette butts were strewn  
across the floor, they had mutilated a much more tattered and stained couch than the one upstairs.  
There was mould growing against the vents on the air conditioner in furry patches, quivering with  
each shuddery puff.

And after that – there were only bodies.

Derek Morgan truly knew his job was fucking him up when the first thing he thought after walking  
into that body-littered basement was ‘ _there aren’t as many as we feared there’d be_.’

\----

The entire team had geographically profiled the unsubs, and consequentially worked out that all of  
their victims either worked, lived or habitually visited the city of Pasadena. Following that discovery,  
they could cut down the estimated size of their raid. Males in their late teens to early twenties that  
frequented Pasadena and had gone missing in the past five years left about sixteen potential victims.

_Sixteen_ potential bodies if we don’t find where these people are being held and _now_.  
Derek had thought bitterly as Hotch suggested they ‘waited for the all clear.’

Aside from the abrasive thumping of his own heartbeat, and the rush of blood pounding behind his  
ears, Derek couldn’t hear anything in the room as the SWAT team moved past the doorway. After  
several moments of silence, a few of the men behind him had to muffle short, horrified curses. At  
the smell or the number of bodies – Derek wasn’t sure.

A soft, lulling quiet was filling the house, and it gave the agent time to ponder on how such a  
residential house could hide this many missing persons, for this long. Fundamentally speaking, he  
wasn’t the type to regularly question the ins and outs of the universe. But looking inside a room like  
this, Derek couldn’t help but think what kind of world, or God could let this happen.

There were about eight human shaped forms, propped up in various corners of the room against the  
wall. They were draped in what looked like bedsheets. A rickety shelf that smelled of heavy-duty  
cleaning products looked like it had been recently emptied of its contents, judging by the spots along  
the wood that weren’t coated in dust.

“Hotch,” Derek said quietly, still managing to break the eerie silence of a failed case. “We’ve got  
what looks like eight bodies down in the basement.” He paused for a moment, averting his eyes as

he noticed the circular-shaped blood spots on varying points of the sheets covering the bodies.  
“Looks like they were all shot, probably recently.” He was bitter, of course, disappointed in himself.

“Alright,” Hotch responded through the earpiece. Regret and disillusionment seeped through the  
older agent’s voice, as hard as Derek believed Hotch was trying to hide it. “I’ll get someone to  
contact forensics, try and get a medical examiner out here.”

“Okay, let’s clear out and set up a parameter around th –” There was a sudden click from behind him  
as one of the men from the SWAT team turned on the light switch. Derek winced, hard. “Disturbing  
the crime scene is kind of counter produc –”

For the second time, Derek cut himself short as a noise disturbed the horrid quietude of the  
basement. It was low, and almost unnoticeable if not for the fact that it _clearly_ came from in  
front of him, rather than behind. If he had to describe the sound, it was comparable to a groan, or  
perhaps a deep whine of some sort.

A defensive sound. Nothing even close to a sound one of their unsub’s would make.

With his gun raising almost immediately, despite not believing he would need to use it, in response,  
Derek spoke. “Hey, kid. Can you hear me?”

A pause, lingering for too long. An exhale of breath from somewhere across the room, still shrouded  
in darkness even with the dim light bulb on.

“Wh – who – ?” The voice was clearly male. Weak, croaky from disuse, enveloped with confusion  
and distrust.

“This is agent Morgan. I’m with the FBI.” Derek took a cautious step into the centre of the room, the  
SWAT team’s lights desperately trying to find the source of the second voice. “Nobody’s going to  
hurt you, kid. We’re here to get you out,” he continued placatingly. He couldn’t place an age  
estimate on the voice, for all Derek knew he could be talking to a young teen. “Are you hurt?”

He almost didn’t want to know the answer when a sharp inhale came from his left.

“Y – yeah. I – it um, ‘s bad.” The voice was getting smaller as Derek moved closer, and if he didn’t  
know any better, he would have guessed the kid wasn’t a hundred percent conscious. Fading in and  
out, most likely.

“Okay, that’s okay,” he promised. “Can you come out?” Another lapsing silence and Derek was ready  
to start upturning what little furniture was in the basement to find this kid.

“I need help,” the voice answered. It was coming from behind the couch, or more accurately,  
beneath it.

“Okay, I’ve got you, stay still.” Derek shifted the couch to the right, acutely aware of the multiple  
guns trained on the space beneath it as a safeguard. He could practically hear them all lowering as  
the shadows moved along with the couch, revealing the poor kid who was struggling to prop himself  
up on one elbow.

He looked like he was brushing twenty, covered in dirt and caked blood with a bedsheet wrapped  
tightly around his upper thigh. He was squashed up against the skirting of the wall where the couch  
had been covering him, the carpet tinged crimson in little streaks around it.

Derek holstered his gun, dropping to one knee and moving closer to the boy. “We’re going to need a  
medic,” he ordered, both to the SWAT team lingering in the doorway and into his earpiece. The kid’s  
– _man’s?_ – hands were trembling where he had them pressed against the blood-soaked  
bedsheet around his thigh. Immediate first aid procedures swirled through Derek’s head. He realised  
the kid had already done everything he could have to stop the blood flow as he asked, “is there an  
exit wound?”

“No, but it feels infected.” Derek nodded, his eyes briefly darting up to see the kid wince sharply as  
he gently shifted his own leg. “Badly,” he insisted.

“Hotch, what’s the ETA on medical?” Derek asked, trying to figure out if the bedsheet had been  
soaked, and was dried, or if the wound was readily bleeding.

“Eight minutes. I need SWAT up here, _now_.” Derek heard the stress in Hotch’s voice, could  
feel the vibration of footsteps rushing back up the basement steps to help with a commotion  
upstairs. They must have uncovered one of the unsubs.

“When were you shot?” He asked, turning his attention back to the wound.

“I – uh… I don’t – maybe twenty-four hours ago?” Derek nods, more to himself than the kid, but he  
glances upwards to make eye contact. He’s in his early twenties, Derek decides, there’s a distinctive  
lack of facial hair for someone who hasn’t cleaned up in days. One side of his head is covered in  
dried blood, it coats the entirety of his temple, ear, jawline and drips past the collar of his shirt. It implies a blitz attack, probably from behind judging by the amount of curls that have been matted to  
his head beside his ear.

His eyes are dark brown, but the pupils are blown wide from a combination of the dim surroundings,  
a possible concussion and fear-induced adrenaline. His jawline is sharp, his frame small and lithe.  
The facial features he presents were overtly ‘pretty,’ perfectly matching the victim type of the  
unsubs.

Derek gently places his palms against the man’s wrists, carefully moving them away from the wound.  
His skin is warm, which doesn’t give Derek much hope in terms of there not being a serious  
infection.

“I need to check how bad the infection is, okay?” He hoped he sounded calm or collected, because  
currently Derek felt far from it. The boy mouthed a wordless ‘okay’ in response as Derek began  
gingerly unrolling the crudely ripped layers of fabric. They stuck together with the dried blood, and  
he could see the kid biting his split lip with every small jolt.

When they got to the very bottom layer of wrap, the kid’s hand shot out and gripped his forearm as  
a pained grunt tore past his lips. “Okay, hey we’re taking it slow,” Derek assured. “Talk to me,” he  
asked, aware of how helpful it is to distract someone during a painful procedure like this. “What’s  
your name, kid?”

The boy’s eyes were screwed shut in anticipation as Derek carefully eased the bandaging away, inch  
by inch. His torso rose and fell with every breath, and heat was radiating from him despite the  
shivers that erratically wracked his frame. He was displaying every sign of a fever caused by the  
infection, and Derek was banking on the fact that the medics should be pulling up outside anytime  
now.

“S – Spencer – my name is Spencer Reid, and I’m almost twenty-two.” His fingers tightened around  
Derek’s forearm and he dropped his forehead against his own shoulder as the bandage pulled at the  
wound. “So – _ugh_ –” Derek cringed apologetically as he heard the breathy moan Spencer let  
out as the blood, which had presumably clotted around his wound, pulled away with the rest of the  
bandaging. “ _Ow_ – logically, someone like you shouldn’t – _shit_ – be calling me a – a  
kid.”

The slightly older man huffed out a small laugh on an exhale, discarding the bandaging and draping  
one hand over the one Spencer was currently using to squeeze the oxygen out of his forearm. He  
dropped the slight brush of humour from his face as he observed the man’s wound.

It was swollen and furiously inflamed, the skin was stretched taught and pink. Red streaking spread  
around the entirety of the area and the drainage was clearly purulent. The infection was bad,  
enough so that Derek had no idea what to do aside from get this kid to a medic and _fast_.

“Okay, Spencer – yeah? Let’s get you outside to the medics.” He shifted slightly, Spencer’s grip on his  
arm faltering with the movement. When all the kid did was nod blearily with a small hum, Derek paid  
closer attention.

When he brushed his palm against Spencer’s upper arm, it was hot to the touch, worryingly so. The  
intermittent shivering had progressed to full-bodied chills and continual shaking. There was  
perspiration beading on his temple, mixing with the dried blood, and his cheeks were flushed bright  
pink. His eyes were closed, his lashes fluttered with every sickly vibration and he winced every few  
seconds, quiet groans and inhales persisting despite the lack of contact Derek had with the wound.

“Hotch, I’m bringing this kid outside to med the medics, he’s burning up really bad.” Derek said,  
meticulously hooking one arm under Spencer’s torso, the other gripping beneath his shoulder and  
pulling upward. “Sorry,” Derek hissed as the movement elicited a much louder cry. He looked to the  
side in time to see the whites of Spencer’s eyes as they closed. “Hey – stay with me,” he demanded.

All he was given was a pained grunt in answer, and a limp hand weakly trying to wrap itself around  
his shoulder. “Ugh, yeah not happening. We aren’t about to do this with me half-walking-half-  
dragging you upstairs,” Derek conceded. “Okay, alright –” he exhaled and wrapped the arm that was  
hooked under the kid’s armpit around beneath his knees instead, keeping as far away from the  
pulsing bullet wound in his thigh as he could.

At this point, Spencer was barely conscious enough to hold his own head up. Derek chalked it up to  
the fact that he’d probably been holed up behind that couch with an open wound for an entire day.  
Being scared out of his mind, locked in a room filled with bodies, of course the poor kid was only  
comfortable enough to pass out from the pain now that he had a member of the FBI carrying him  
out of this hellhole.

Derek gingerly adjusted the non-bloodied side of Spencer’s head, so that it was somewhat  
supported by his chest, taking the weight off his neck. The skin of the boy’s neck that consequently  
brushed against his collarbone felt exceedingly hot, and Derek could swear he felt the jackrabbiting  
heart rate thudding unevenly beneath Spencer’s flaming skin as he walked out of the caved in front  
door.

The first thing he heard was the commotion of different voices yelling. A pudgy, unshaven man with  
bloodshot eyes and hands cuffed behind his back was being shoved towards the black SUV. Hotch  
had one hand on the junction of his neck and shoulder, pressing him forwards through the door and spitting out his rights, ignoring the man’s flurry of profanity and insistence that he had nothing to do  
with ‘ _whatever you people found in the basement_.’

“Hotch!” Derek snapped, jerking his head towards one of the SWAT team and motioning for them to  
sort the unsub out. His superior immediately relented control of the man over to the men from  
SWAT who moved to take over.

Derek felt Spencer’s body cease from the persistent shivering for a moment before the boy whined  
high in his throat and turned his face away from the noise. “Hotch –” Derek began, discomfort lacing  
his tone as he turned to see a fresh line of blood running down the side of the kid’s thigh from the  
bullet wound.

“What happened?” The older man asked, moving to guide Derek towards the road where the  
paramedics had just pulled up.

“Found him tucked beneath the couch, looks like he’d been there for about a day. He’s been shot  
and its infected – he’s feverish and wasn’t conscious for long,” he explained hurriedly.

From somewhere behind him, the sight of Spencer had set the unsub off again, and the SWAT men  
had to slam the car door on the man who was avidly screeching about finishing the poor kid off so he  
wouldn’t rat the operation out.

“Did you get a name? Someone to contact while they treat him at the hospital?” Hotch asked, one  
hand hovering in the air as Derek stepped up into the ambulance in case he fell.

“Uh – yeah,” Derek mumbled, focusing on gently lowering the man down onto the stretcher,  
keeping a supporting hand against the nape of his neck until he was down flat on the bed. “Spencer  
– um, Spencer Reid. He’s about twenty-one.” He looked towards Hotch, clearly torn between leaving  
the bloodied and likely traumatised kid to the medics and leaving the crime scene to Hotch on his  
own.

“Go with him, I want a security detail with him at all times until we’ve got both of the men who ran  
this in custody.” Hotch sounded stern, but Derek knew the man well enough that he could tell the  
tone in his voice wasn’t directed at anything other than the unsubs. He registered a look on his  
superior’s face that read as critical thought, a hint of recognition perhaps.

Spencer had probably been brought up in the potential victim pool, Derek figured.

The two medics were already attaching monitors to the boy, taking readings and assessing exactly  
how bad the infection and fever were. Derek rested one hand on the door to the ambulance, ready  
to pull it shut as the engine started up. “Call me with updates,” Hotch ordered with a surprising  
amount of worry and carefulness in his tone.

“Will do,” Derek promised as he pulled the door to the ambulance shut and positioned himself on a  
bench directly beside Spencer’s head.

The man’s eyebrows weren’t furrowed anymore, his chest had relaxed, torso no longer wracked  
with jitters on every breath. The medics must have administered something for the pain, or perhaps  
just a sedative, the agent figured.

\----

After roughly an hour, everyone who should have been at the crime scene was there. A perimeter  
had been set up and the unsub was being taken in. Aaron Hotchner finally had a moment of his own.

The ringtone was interrupted after half a ring, and he was thankful for his team’s punctuality once  
again.

“Garcia,” he began. “I need you to pull up that list of names I had you run background checks on last  
month.”

\----

Derek was able to settle himself in Spencer’s recovery room after almost two hours of waiting to  
hear back from the surgeon. The kid already looked world’s better than he had when Derek first  
found him beneath that couch. His skin wasn’t as sheet pale, majority of the blood had been cleaned  
away from the side of his head along with the worst of the dirt. His fever had dropped to a more  
manageable level and the doctors didn’t seem as concerned about the risk of septic shock.

Surprisingly enough, the kid’s eyelids began fluttering again after only an hour or two after returning from surgery.

“Hey,” a raspy voice managed. Derek looked up from his phone. Spencer’s eyes were only half-  
lidded, but he was clearly conscious and aware of his surroundings. “I didn’t think it was common  
procedure to stick around with the victim’s for this long. Don’t you have paperwork to do?” The younger man smiled wearily, his head scooting around on the stack of pillows behind him.

“It’s not. You’re just lucky,” Derek said evenly. Spencer nodded once, blinking slowly before speaking  
again.

“I think,” he began tiredly. “I think the only reason I’m alive right now is because they thought they’d  
shot my femoral artery.” The man bit the inside of his cheek. “I guess there was enough blood for  
them to think that I had – yeah. That’s why they left me downstairs.”

Derek opened his mouth to say something, either in comfort or for evidence’s sake, he didn’t know  
because Spencer bet him to it. “You know, statistically speaking, out of all the isolated infrainguinal  
arterial injuries in a four-year span, half of all the deaths were due to injuries in the femoral artery.  
And over eighty percent of the patients had injury to the superficial femoral artery.”

Derek raised one eyebrow, watching Spencer perking up in his bed as he continued. “And in a ten-  
year span with a hundred patients suffering femoral artery injuries, the death and amputation rates  
were almost six percent.” The man was twisting his fingers together as he spoke, looking up at the  
ceiling. “I – I guess that explains why they figured I had bled out,” he finished with a meek smile.

“Guess so,” Derek replied. He looked sincerely at Spencer’s face, catching the man’s attention. “But  
you’re alive, and that’s all that matters right now.”

There was silence in the room, and Derek appreciated the difference between the quiet now, and  
the quiet that had blanketed that basement.

After several moments of Spencer’s blinking growing heavier and heavier, Morgan excused himself  
into the hallway outside the door to answer a call from Hotch. “Hey, the kid’s out of surgery, he was  
awake for a bit, but I think he’s conking out again about now.”

“Do you think we’ll be able to get a victim statement from him?” Hotch asked.

“Yeah, yeah absolutely. He’s already talked about some of it. He was rattling off statistics like –”

“About that,” Hotch interrupted. “I did some digging with Garcia while we were looking to find  
someone to call for him.” Derek nodded, despite knowing Hotch couldn’t see him. “The name you  
gave rang a bell, but he wasn’t on our potential victim’s list – he was never even reported missing in the first place.” Derek frowned, it was unlikely that someone who wasn’t homeless, or a drug addict  
wouldn’t be reported missing. “He goes to Caltech,” Hotch continued. “He has three PhD’s and was  
working on his third BA already.”

“That must’ve been why he was targeted. Caltech is right in the middle of our unsubs comfort zone,”  
Derek said slowly, running his thumb and forefingers over the bridge of his nose.

“I had to review his resume about a month ago,” Hotch admitted after a pause. “Gideon had already gotten him preliminary acceptance with the team. Garcia ran multiple background checks. He was supposed to start later this year.” Hotch sighed heavily, Derek glanced through the pane of glass into Spencer’s room. He was out cold on the bed.

Jesus, this kid was supposed to be his co-worker and several hours ago Derek had been carrying him  
out of the basement of an illegal trafficking ring with a severe fever and infected gunshot wound.

What a way to start a career with the BAU.

**Author's Note:**

> I mean if y'all really want you can call this Moreid. If you squint.
> 
> In season 2 they said Derek was like 33, meaning he would've been born around 1973 - but then they totally retconed that in season 11 when they said his father died on November 7, 1985, and Derek was supposed to have been 10 years old when that happened WHICH MEANS his birth date is closer to 1975.
> 
> So long story short I'm the side of canon that believes Derek is like six years older than Spencer.
> 
> \----
> 
> Give @spidersonangst @febufluff-whump (on Tumblr) all the credit, the only reason this is happening this month is because of them!


End file.
